


the kindness of strangers

by dreamlibra



Category: True Detective
Genre: M/M, Roland's a good good man, hurt/comfort i guess lol, just an excuse to explore what really happened that night, this just wound up being a roland west character study, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 02:03:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20145769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlibra/pseuds/dreamlibra
Summary: If his father were still alive, he’d laugh at Roland’s tendency to care too much, especially about people who hadn’t earned it. But Roland had never felt strangers needed to earn kindness.“It’ll get the best of you some day,” his daddy’d warned him. And perhaps picking Tom Purcell up at a dingy bar in the middle of the night was the day he’d warned about.





	the kindness of strangers

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on episode 7 because I can't bring myself to finish the season so tread carefully, there may be some canon discrepancies especially since I've fully convinced myself that Roland and Tom really must have been together (and maybe they were, I haven't finished the season, anything's possible! Unless it isn't in which case I'm a fool!)

The smell of the bar is overpowering — sweat and hard liquor, the smell of men after a long day. The bar TV hums and murmurs as commentators talk about football, or maybe basketball, Roland’s not sure. He’s not focused on the smell or the TV, or the way his shoes stick to the tacky, dirty floor with each step he takes. All he’s thinking about is Tom Purcell and how he manages to keep getting himself into trouble, it’s as though he’s self-destructing. All the more reason to be worried, all the more reason to rush into the back room where Purcell is sitting on the ground, looking like absolute shit. Roland just stares at the disaster unfolding before him. 

He feels like somehow it’s all his fault, maybe if Wayne hadn’t found his dead kid, or if they could just find his damn daughter, then Tom Purcell would be looking a lot better. Maybe he’d go back to work, maybe he’d make love to his wife, maybe he’d look happy. Roland wonders what that looks like — what happiness looks like on Tom Purcell. He’s not even sure what he’s doing there at the bar anyway. Sure, Roland is working on his case, but they could have called any other cop, could have called his wife to pick him up. But they called Roland, and for some reason that’s beyond his understanding he agreed to come get him. Roland knows that he’s got better things to do, that he can’t be Purcell’s babysitter or caregiver, but he still feels like he owes the man some kindness considering all the shit he’s been through, is going through. If his father were still alive, he’d laugh at Roland’s tendency to care too much, especially about people who hadn’t earned it. Roland never felt strangers needed to earn kindness.

“It’ll get the best of you some day,” His daddy’d warned him. 

Perhaps picking Tom Purcell up at a dingy bar in the middle of the night was the day he’d warned about.

But Roland had never really liked listening to his dad anyway, so he offers Purcell a hand and ignores any possibility of the consequences. Tom’s hand is clammy in Roland’s, and it takes him a minute to actually get up off the ground. His legs are wobbly and loose under him, maybe from drinking or losing a bar fight, but probably because his whole life is caving in on him. Roland does his best to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach when he’s close enough to see the tears that haven’t dried up and the blood still leaking from Purcell’s crooked nose. It’s a palpable kind of sadness when Purcell chokes out a pathetic sounding sob, like an animal dying. 

“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Roland’s not sure if he’s talking to Tom or himself when he pulls him up off the floor.

They walk out of the back room and Tom’s leaning against him like the floor might collapse right under him. Roland can’t shake the feeling that people are staring — is it the way Purcell fits into his side or how Roland’s hand finds a place on the nape of his neck? That’s selfish thinking though, people aren’t staring because of him. They’re staring because Tom Purcell reminds them that their own kids ain’t safe. Or maybe he reminds them that they should be thanking their God that they aren’t as broken or hopeless. And maybe even that’s selfish thinking, maybe no one’s staring at all. But Roland can’t shake the awareness of his own body or Tom Purcell’s (and the smell of his cheap cologne and of iron and of incurable sickness) and how that must look to people. What kind of ass wastes his time looking after a man like Tom Purcell? And is Tom Purcell really so sad, so pathetic he’s gotta have another man come drive him home?

When they get out of the bar, the car seems far away, like they’re walking for blocks. The air is humid before it starts weeping, maybe Purcell isn’t alone in his sadness. The car looks lonely in the parking lot, even surrounded by pick-up trucks and littered beer cans. He helps Tom Purcell into it which doesn’t take much work. Purcell is light, he reminds Roland of a bird, like one he had brought home as a kid. He’d tried his damnedest to fix it, had given him shelter and some food, had held it when no one wanted to touch it. But the wing never did heal and Roland was left with a cold and lifeless bird in a too-big cardboard box. He buried him in the yard and cried and cried until his belly ached. He hopes to some god that there’s another fate for Tom Purcell.

Roland gets himself in the car just as the rain worsens, it bangs against his windows hard like it’s got something important to say. But Roland ignores it, only drops his keys once before he gets them in the ignition and starts driving. The drive is quiet save for the same dying animal sound from the bar pushing its way out of Tom’s lips. Roland doesn’t dare look at him, feels like his heart might break and then he’d have to explain why he’s got any kind of fondness for a guy like Tom Purcell. It’s not until they reach a red light that Purcell gets anything out of his body that actually resembles words. It takes him a few tries too — his tongue gets all tangled up in his mouth before anything starts to make sense. He tells Roland about how he misses his kids, about how he wants to die. And that scares the shit out of Roland, he’s not too sure what to do, if he can do anything. He just grips the wheel a little tighter and ventures at actually looking at Tom Purcell who’s dissolving into his passenger seat. And Roland’s heart really does almost split right down the middle, but he manages to keep his shit together, puts his eyes back on the road, and keeps driving.

“I can’t be in that house man,” Tom admits and Roland knows all too well the danger of houses, they can be awful, hungry things hell-bent on tearing you apart.

“I got a jail cell for ya, or a couch,” Roland doesn’t think twice before offering, he just hopes that Tom’ll choose the couch. 

Tom chooses the couch.

.

.

.

Roland’s hearth is warm. He feels grateful to be home, grateful that he can leave the smell of the bar on his coat as he strips it off. Tom Purcell stands like a ghost in his doorway, stuck somewhere between the warm glow of Roland’s porchlight and the beckoning call of his couch.

“You comin’ in or what?” Roland asks.

“Yeah, just didn’t expect it to be so big,” it sounds like an excuse, Roland wonders what it’s meant to be excusing.

Tom shuts the door behind him, follows Roland’s lead and strips off the jacket he’s wearing. It almost looks as worn and sad as he does, especially when it hits the ground. Similarly, Tom drops onto the couch and for the first time in the whole night, he looks comfortable. Roland offers him something to drink, something to eat and Tom makes sure to let him know that he doesn’t do much eating or drinking lately. Roland ignores the way that hearing that makes his heart drop. 

“I think I’ll just be going to sleep. If you don’t mind,” Tom says and lays down on the couch. 

Roland scrambles to get some blankets, a pillow at the very least but Tom insists that he doesn’t need them. They settle on getting him a pillow. Roland sinks into his chair, he doesn’t really want to leave Tom alone. He hasn’t fully recovered from the dread of hearing Tom talking about wanting to die. Roland grabs a book, insists that he’s only reading and he’ll head up to his own bed when he’s done. Tom believes it enough to try and actually get some sleep. Maybe it’s even kind of comforting for him, to know that he’s not all alone. Roland pretends not to hear it, but he swears he hears something about Lucy and how she’d never do this. Roland’s not sure what this is, but he’s glad to be able to offer it.

.

.

.

Roland drifts off not too long after Tom’s fallen asleep, the sight of Tom sleeping peacefully puts him at ease enough to get comfortable in his chair. In the middle of the night though, or perhaps the early morning really, he wakes up to a yelling. He immediately jumps to his feet and sees Tom tossing and turning up a storm. He’s knocked the pillow off the couch and has just about thrown himself right off too. It takes Roland a minute to steady himself, he hasn’t had anyone in his home in some time, and he’d forgotten he’d brought Tom home with him. But when he recovers from the shock, he puts a hand on Tom’s shoulder and shakes gently. It doesn’t take much to wake him, and in a moment Tom is up, his face is sticky with tears and snot but Roland’s too terrified to be concerned with the look of Tom’s face. He acts on instinct and two firm arms wrap around Tom, it’s a desperate attempt to calm him but it’s all Roland has got. Tom looks all the more vulnerable against the backdrop of Roland’s shoulders. And Roland’s fairly certain that if he were to squeeze, Tom would just snap.

It takes Tom some slobbering and a few more sobs before he actually stops shaking. And when he does, Roland lets go.

“Alright. Let’s just get you back to sleep, Mr. Purcell,” he grunts, his arms feel useless.

But Tom doesn’t lay back into the couch, and doesn’t sink into another deep sleep. Instead, he hooks his long and calloused fingers into Roland’s shirt before he can get too far. The touch is tender, and somehow Roland’s never considered that Tom could actually be capable of such affection. But Tom holds onto his arm like Roland’s the only one capable of keeping him contained, like if he lets go he might just go spilling out of himself, like he’s been spilling out all night — at the bar, and in the car, and in Roland’s own home. Tom’s fingers look sickly when Roland sees his own against them. He pulls the hand off of himself and tries to think of all the different ways in which this moment could play out. In one, he kicks Tom out over such a desperate touch, puts him right back on the street and narrowly avoids the day his father’d warned him about. In another, Tom grabs the pillow off of the floor, and sinks back into a dreamless sleep or maybe a dreamfilled one, and in that dream he has a son and a daughter and a wife he loves. But neither Roland nor Tom are lucky enough for things to play out either way. So, Tom grabs right back onto Roland’s arm and this time Roland doesn’t move an inch. Neither of them say a word and the moments feel long, like they’re counting down to something inevitable. But nothing happens even as they wait in silence. 

“Is this hell?” Roland breathes a sigh of relief when Tom breaks the silence.

“It isn’t hell, Mr. Purcell. No such thing.”

“If only it were, then it’d make sense. This suffering, I mean.”

“There ain’t no sense in any kind of suffering. Shit,” Roland finally stands up from the couch, finally moves away from Tom’s touch. He paces around for a bit, like he’s debating something, before reaching for a smashed up pack of cigarettes. Roland tries to control the shakiness of his hands as he offers up a cigarette to Tom.

“Ain’t we friends?” Tom responds, and Roland’s not sure what the hell he’s on about and makes sure to let Tom know.

“I mean, you keep callin’ me ‘Mr. Purcell’ like it means shit but it don’t. I’m just Tom. Why can’t I be just Tom?” he sounds like he might start crying again

“Alright man we’re friends. We are,” Roland sighs, “want me to call you Tom? I’ll call you Tom.”

Roland lights the cigarette and takes a drag, he’d read a news article recently about how smoking’s supposed to make your stress worse, so he can’t figure out for the life of him why he immediately feels better. He takes a few more drags before Tom motions for it. Roland reaches for the cigarette pack again only to be stopped by Tom’s hand.

“Ain’t we friends?” Tom asks again, and Roland drops the pack. 

Roland looks at him as he puts the cigarette out. He kisses Tom real soft, worried that any kind of hardness would break him. Tom flinches like a dog that’s never known kindness but quickly sinks into it. He grabs onto the sleeves of Roland’s shirt and holds on tight. Tom is made up of hard angles and scratchy cheeks, it isn’t unpleasant — Roland’s a tough man after all, he can handle an edge. Although Roland is more inclined to softness than he’s keen to let on. And maybe that’s what this moment is; a lapse in the persona, a lowering of walls. Roland’s got a soft spot for just about anything and Tom is no exception. Maybe Roland’s hoping that some affection’ll do Tom good. 

In high school, Roland had been on the football team. He had dated the prettiest girl in school, and had loved her real good too. But when she broke his heart, Roland found himself kissing the quarterback in the haze of late afternoons, long after the buzz of practice had worn off. It’s been long since then but kissing Tom reminds him of those afternoons. Except the joy of boyhood is gone, kissing Tom is more like throwing a lifeline. It doesn’t take too long for Tom to pull away. Tom wipes Roland’s mouth like the only thing he’s sure of is his own dirtiness. It doesn’t take long for him to fall to his knees either, begging for forgiveness, familiar tears returning to their home on his face.

“C’mon, man, get up off the floor. I kissed you, there’s no need for all that,” Roland can’t stand to look at him. But Tom doesn’t get up, just sobs into the thigh of Roland’s leg. He sighs and loses a hand in the mess of Tom’s hair, just pets him, hoping it might make a difference. In between sobs, Tom fiddles with the buckle of Roland’s belt.

Roland puts his hand over his, “come on now, Tom, you don’t wanna do that.”

“Says who?” Tom mouths into his thigh, almost like a prayer. He looks up at Roland as if he were looking up at salvation. Roland just looks at him real soft, guilt forms in his belly when he considers letting Tom get his way, but Roland knows better than that. He helps Tom onto his feet, dusts him off, and places a warm hand on Tom’s hollow cheek. He places a kiss on Tom’s mouth again, a compromise. He wants so badly to hold him but Roland fears where that might lead, he’s never really been one for one night stands. He’d given it a try in college but nothing ever felt as good as loving a man or woman fully and with every bit of you. And Roland wishes he could do that for Tom, but he’s married and broken and anything he’s looking for is just quick relief. It doesn’t stop Roland from picturing it though, he’s not too sure he loves Tom yet but he could, they’d have a home somewhere surrounded by friends. They’d find his daughter and spend their evenings holding each other not because the world is falling apart, but because they’re full of love. Roland almost laughs at himself for picturing a life like that, he’s always been a sucker for the idea of domesticity, had scared a few partners away with the thought of it too.

“You believe in love, Tom?”

“Naw,” he pauses before he keeps speaking, “I mean there’s love like lovin’ your kids kinda love and I believe in that. But between a man and woman, that kind of lovin’ — that’s rotten work.”

Roland thinks about his answer for a moment, thinks about telling Tom about how love is indeed real, in its many and infinite forms but instead asks, “how about lovin’ a man? You ever love one?”

Tom rubs his hands together like the question makes him feel cold, “I suppose I might,” he admits after a heavy, heavy pause and doesn’t dwell on it too long, “what about you, Roland? You believe in love?”

“Yeah, I do. Love’s about the only thing fully worth believin’ in.”

“Then can you kiss me again, like it’s true… like I believe in it too?” And so Roland does, kisses him because he does believe it’s true, and if Tom’s willing to play pretend and for a moment believe it, then he won’t rob him of it.

They kiss again and again and again. And Roland holds Tom real soft, gently palms over dirty pants, then clean underwear, and then skin. If they’re pretending that love can live here, then it’s not just meaningless (or at least Roland convinces himself of that). And as he gently caresses, and strokes, Tom feels so malleable in his hands. If only he could use this moment to shape him into a Tom that hasn’t been torn apart, or to fix up all the damage that’s been done. But there’s no shaping or fixing, just the quiet exchange of a fragile, human thing. Roland had nearly forgotten how electric it is to be small and human, he wonders if Tom realizes it now too. The beauty of goosebumps after a certain caress, and the sharpness of breathing, and blood rushing in veins. And how all of that is love, deeply engraved in the nature of bodies. And like the beauty of most things, it’s over in a moment. Roland presses kisses into Tom’s neck tracing up to his ear, maybe he’s hoping that if he kisses Tom enough he can convince him that things are worth it if only for these quiet moments hidden away from the rest of the world.

Neither of them speak when it’s done, and they don’t move either. Tom just lays in Roland’s arms, on his couch, it seems much smaller when it holds two grown men. They stay that way until Roland begins to shift, “I oughta get you a change of clothes. They never really dried after the rain, huh?” he gets up as carefully as he can.

“You care too much, Roland. Anybody ever tell you that?”

Roland takes a deep breath, wonders if he means it in a good way or a bad one, “Yeah, I’ve heard it once or twice.”

“I’m grateful for it. I think it saved me tonight.”

.

.

.

Roland wakes up early with not nearly enough sleep under his belt, but it ain’t anything he’s not used to. He’s got a sore back but the smell of coffee’s enough to get him up and out of the chair he slept in. Tom’s in the kitchen with Roland’s coffee pot, pouring into two mugs.

“You think it’s right to go lookin’ through another man’s kitchen, Mr. Purcell?” his voice contains no real threat, just some amusement. It doesn’t stop Tom from just about jumping out of his skin.

“I didn’t mean no harm, Detective. Just wanted to thank you.”

“I know, Tom. I’m just teasin’ but if you really want to thank me, you’ll make that coffee sweet. Like dessert,” Roland says.

Tom cracks a smile and it’s the nicest goddamn thing Roland’s ever seen. He grabs the sugar and cream and hands it to Tom, watches the granules of sugar pour and pour into the cup, slowly disappearing. It’s the best coffee he’s tasted. He makes sure to savor it, rich and warm on his tongue. He drinks until his belly’s full of coffee and maybe a hopefulness that things’ll turn out alright for Tom Purcell.

“So how about it, Tom,” he tries again, “you believe in love?”

“Yes. I think I might.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please sound off in the comments about how much you love Roland West and how he's such a good man... because he is


End file.
